Cause I don't stand a chance in these four walls
by companyundercovers
Summary: Damon works through the knowledge that Elena could be possibly sired to him. And would his hands please stop shaking because he's fine. Right? Just sitting on the subway thinking about the last episode and what it could mean for 4x08 and I'm ready for the cosmic angst that is about to come for Delena with this whole sire bond - so here's a one-shot that gets out some of my feels.


Elena is living with us.

Elena and I had sex.

Elena is sired to me?

My brain keeps making lists in my head to add all this shit up but it's broken. It is literally broken because I just had the most fantastic,mind-blowing sex with the girl I love and my brain does not know how to process this. Because this was never supposed to happen because she's Elena.

The same girl who loves my brother, the same girl who is a vampire and doesn't know what the hell she is doing, the same girl who is sired to me.

Sired to me.

These words all strung together in a sentence don't make any sense. I keep looking in the mirror, watching myself say them aloud. No matter how hard I try to string them together in a semi coherent sentence like my brother so eloquently did earlier, I fail miserably.

Because for those words to be true, for those words to be real and tangible and honest - what happened with Elena would be wrong, would deserve the look of disgust that Stefan sent me this afternoon.

And when I image my lips on hers, then her neck and stomach and then her - I get this inherent sense that what we did was right and real and so worth it. Like how I felt giving Rose her dream before she died or compelling Jeremy somewhere safe or the millions of other times where my conscience gives me a pat on the back because I didn't royally fuck everything up.

I keep replaying every interaction between Elena and I. Well, everyone except the _ohgodyes _and _pleaseneverstop_ because that moment is in my skin and bones and blood, forever intertwined with all and everything that I do.

I play them like a movie and I try to be an objective third party outsider. But then when I start putting pieces together they still don't make sense. I've got an incomplete puzzle and bias all over the pieces.

Or maybe I just denying the inevitable. I know what everyone is thinking, what they thought the second Elena said she had feelings for me - that she can't possibly love me, want me, choose me because it's real, no the only explanation is a something is wrong with her. Because as long as Stefan prances around with his hero hairdo there's no way I get chosen.

And they have to be right. Because if they're not than the whole world is upside down. Right is wrong, and wrong is right. That's not the kind of world people want to live in. One where I get the happy endings and amazing nights with the girl I love pressing her skin against mine reminding why I'm worth it.

_And sometimes I think that's exactly the kind of world I want to live in.  
_  
Whatever. Big fucking deal. Elena is sired to me. We'll fix this and she'll go running back to Stefan and life will go on just as it did before.

Except this time you'll know the smell of her skin, the feel of her legs wrapping around yours, the way her eyes light up when she realizes you stayed the night by her side and the sound of her raspy good morning.

And now the thought of staking myself through the heart sounds a hell of a lot more appealing than ever living in a world where she goes back to Stefan with my heart lying broken over there on the floor.

God, one night with Elena and I've become a drama queen. I need some alcohol because otherwise this whole feeling bit that my brain keeps doing is going to drive me up the fucking wall.

I walk over to my drink stash where my precious Bourbon usually sits and it's empty. "Fucking great! Let's add reason number 547 to the list of why this day should be permanently erased from the history books and my brain." I mumble, irritated as I walk into the hall to find more Bourbon. I make it two steps down the hall before Elena bumps into me, all frantic and beautiful and half-dressed.

Wait. Brain focus. Half-dressed?

I see it now more clearly and my eyes widen at the sight of her blue dress hanging in the back, the zipper undone. Her slender are arms holding up her ridiculously long hair exposing her soft neck and I want to run back into my room and shut the door where I can work out my desires in private. And who proposed this whole move Elena into the same house as me, again? Oh that's right, me.

I think of that Greek tragic hero, Oedipus who consciously led himself to his own doom eventually poking his eyes out because he couldn't stand the thought of sleeping with his own mother. And our stories are the same, albeit the sleeping with my mom part, because I too want to poke out my eyes and make them bleed because maybe then the process of unseeing Elena naked and sexualizing her every move will go away. _But you know it's deeper than just sight, Damon._

"Oh, Damon, sorry. But, I just, can you, zip this for me?" She asks frustrated and flustered. And I think she belongs in a special place in hell for looking at me like that with her doe eyes and _does she honestly expect to refuse anything she asks?_

Okay. Damon. Be a man. You are a vampire and you're big and strong and this girl over here just needs her dressed zipped and this is a life and death matter.

Never mind that it's the first time touching her after you found out that she could be possibly sired to you and that every reaction she has to you has probably just been your blood in her veins forcing her to feel something.

And now I'm pissed, I'm so mad that she asks me to zip up her dress like it's the most natural thing in the world for me to do and for her to ask me. Because it's not, _because she's not mine and she never will be._

And can my hands please stop shaking?

"Nope, sorry Elena, no can do." I mutter hopelessly and I think my voice breaks because Elena turns around like she knows that something is wrong, that my brain is about to burst out of my head just at the thought of touching her again.

"What's wro–"And I cut her off there because the pity I see about to creep onto her face is too fucking much.

"Nothing's wrong, Elena. Nothing. I'm peachy keen over here. Except you know, dealing with the fact that you're sired to me and all. That what happened last night wasn't real for you but was the most real thing I've felt in my entire life. Because everything about you is real and right and so fucking beautiful. And I know that if I zip up your dress, if I even touch a little sliver of your fucking breakable skin – I'm never letting go and I'll take you, consume you, and knowing that whatever you feel is just because of the sire bond would break me, Elena. So for my own self-preservation I'm saying no, not now, not today, not ever." It all comes out in this achingly pathetic way and her face looks like she just witnessed a puppy being kicked.

And even though I know none of this is her fault, I sort of want to shake some sense into her. Like doesn't she realize that telling her no would be a hell of a lot easier if she didn't look like she so desperately wanted me to say yes.

"Damon, I – I'm just so confused." And it's like a kick to my gut because she's not trying to please me, she just wants to be honest. Because we're always honest with each other, even when it cuts and bleeds – we're honest.

"I know, baby. I know. It's okay to be confused because this shit is confusing. And I'm not blaming you, I'm just telling you the truth, that I can't touch you." I shrug half-hardly because I'm so done with this conversation and current chaos of a situation. And why am I not thoroughly drunk right now?

Elena gives me a sad smile and reaches out to touch my arm in what she assumes would be a comforting way except for the fact that it would be her skin touching my skin which I'm prepared to never experience ever again because this whole feeling like I got staked in the chest is not okay.

So I dodge her hand, ignoring the broken look on her face and fighting that part of me that wants to smooth out her frown lines and kiss her worries away and walk down the stairs to find my Bourbon.

With each sip of the amber liquid, the room gets lighter, the memories become more fuzzy, but the pain of knowing that the one thing that I want never will be mine stays.

No amount of alcohol can cure that.


End file.
